


A Shared Name

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Alice (2009)
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, References to emotional drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small what-if scene after Hatter's capture, and a wander into a shared past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shared Name

**Author's Note:**

> I spent the miniseries wondering if they would ever address the presumed shared history of Mads Hatter and March beyond one confused look of recognition in the first hour. They did not. So I did.

Nobody’s recognised him yet.

Or if they have, nobody’s _saying_ anything, and in Wonderland, that’s all that matters.

 _We’re going to have a look inside your hat,_ one of the Doctors tells him – Dee, he thinks.

 _Fancy that!_ his brother giggles, ridiculously pleased with a rhyme that doesn’t fit the scheme Hatter had been expecting. That must be Dum.

He rolls his eyes, looks away, and meets the hideous porcelain gaze of Mad March.

“What did they do to you?” he asks. If this is going to go the way he thinks, he’s running down towards his last requests. They’re something that’s bothered him for years, trying to look for the escape inherent in the right question, and yet now that he’s here, there’s something he actually wants to know. He probably doesn’t want to hear it, but he has to _know_.

He remembers the confusion outside his teashop; the hesitation, then curious half-recognition, and then finally the awful dawning realisation. Wonderland truly is constantly a wonder to him. Nonsense bleeds so easily into cruelty here, and he truly thought he’d become a part of that, adapting and following the flow and so on and on, passing out emotions and information and staying on top. That’s what it’s all about, after all: staying on top of it all. On top of that thing starting with an _M_ that people mutter when they know full well that he’s listening.

The assassin – no mincing of words, not here, March is a killer more than a tracker, there’s only one reason you’d choose _him_ – tilts his head with a mechanical whine. Hatter grits his teeth; digs fingers into the arms of the chair they so kindly provided to him, as one stable point in the storm.

“You remember me, don’t you?”

Nothing. Porcelain isn’t designed for expressions. Neither was Mad March though, so technically nothing’s changed.

“Last time I saw you, you were dead,” he says bluntly, because he does prefer talking to the alternative of Other People Talking, and it’s not even all that much unlike the old days, when Hatter talked a lot and March hardly at all. The doctors exchange glances on either side of him, so he’s not rambling in his head (again). At least they can hear him. 

(They’re going to hear a lot more if they break him.)

March’s head, for want of a better word, twitches. There probably is a better word, but it’ll be one of those words that creeps into your brain and you can never shake once you’ve thought it. A word with edges and coils to sink into you. There’s a reason why one of his most popular items is _Forgetfulness_.

“So I was,” March says at last. “Funny, ain’t it? How dead ain’t the permanent thing it used to be.”

It does sound like March. It really does. But March into a microphone; March recorded and played back through a monstrosity that even impresses Hatter, who’s seen a fair few things on both sides. 

Still, Hatter has something to play off now. He likes that; kicking back, balancing the chair on two legs as if they’re laughing over drinks again, he can almost smell again the tantalising scents of _ecstasy_ and _delirium_. Well, Hatter laughing, March preferring something quieter, but with that illegal and incredible cocktail, things moved much faster. 

“You remember me then? Hate to think I was that forgettable.”

“Job’s a job’s, Hatter.” He tries not to let his lazy smile freeze at the sound of his name twisted through that dead voice. “Queenie’s got the goods, in every way that counts.

“But – ” another twitch, and despite the lack of eyelids, Hatter knows March is narrowing his eyes, going for the kill – the loose thread to pull the target open “ – I reckon I must remember you wrong.”

Hatter lets his performance of a smile fade. He knows exactly what March means; knows that no, he remembers Hatter exactly right. And as much as Hatter wanted to see just what the Queen did to him – how far she went – he’s suddenly very aware of their audience. Forget March for a moment; what happened to _him_? He’s supposed to be better at this. Has to have been, to be playing this game for so long.

These days his life is supposed to be all about balance: balancing one side against the other, both outside in the teashop, and inside, because March has been dead for years and his partner had a very simple choice with regard to expanding his employment prospects into the lucrative emotion field and away from more direct pursuits. Not that he’s forgotten himself.

Hatter and March, and their shared adjective. Why?

_We’re all mad here._

“We were partners,” March says. “You and me. Killed a whole lotta people for a whole lotta money.”

Hatter thinks he smiles nervously, just for a moment. Possibly it’s just his face twitching. Old enemies are bad; old friends can be worse. “I preferred the tea parties myself.”

“You would. All those questions of yours. You ever get an answer to your favourite?”

Hatter knows which one he means. “I stopped asking.”

“Of course you did. Ear to the ground, hiding scared. This broad must’ve really gotten to you, for you to be here.”

“You could say that.” Probably he shouldn’t, because at the mere mention of Alice he hesitates, a tiny opening, and out of the corner of his eye he sees that the Doctors saw it. No. They can’t have Alice. Not even in his head.

Problem is, Alice is the only thing in his head that he actually wants there.

It’s a little crowded, but bless his girl, she pushed her way in and made space and he’s never been happier to have anybody crawl inside his skull. He’s only sorry about the company.

There’s Hatter, ready when they pass the hat, a survivor to the end.

And then there’s Hatter-in-the-mirror. Hatter through his own looking glass. The one whose hand the whole of Wonderland fears; the one who lies behind the question. Why that question, Hatter doesn’t know. That’s the thing about being

well

mad.

_Something beginning with M._

March would be the one the Queen wanted, of course. He was the really twisted son of a bitch. Hatter just packed a punch – the kind that could kill you if he wanted.

These days, he didn’t want. He had wanted to just lie low in his teashop, half of Wonderland seeing him as a former assassin now in the Queen’s employ, and the other half still seeing him as that, but with a little extra philanthropy, as he liked to call it. Now he wanted…something. Something different. He didn’t want to hide.

And see where that got him.

An awful sound cuts through his thoughts. It takes him a moment to realise that March’s laugh hasn’t improved with time.

“Keep your broad,” he advises, already turning to go. “Not like there’s anything left of you otherwise.”

It should be a compliment. It really, really should. The idea that Hatter doesn’t count as a killer anymore; that his own old partner doesn’t see the spark of madness inside him. (More than a spark, when you see it in the mirror.) And yet Hatter can’t help but feel something bristle inside him.

“Hey, Docs,” March announces, back still turned, but hand briefly emerging from his pocket to let the twisting and turning lights skim across something made of glass, “be sure to give him a shot of this when you’re done. And keep giving it.”

Scent in the air, coiling across to him, and

_Delirium_

Oh, Hatter can already feel the memories; the nostalgia; the _need_ to feel that again. He’s been so good in his teashop, never sampling the wares, and never letting that one in, never anything that skims too close to his full name, his _real name_ , some might call it. There’s laughter and lights and everything he could possibly want in that bottle right there – 

Everything but Alice.

The memory fades, and sobriety is both better and worse than ever. Falling back into his own pocket of reality, past every relic of the rabbit hole, to hit the ground with a thud.

This is what he gets for trying to be good. He’s starting to think he’s not cut out for this at all. Alice is the one spot of light in his mind, and they know that, and they’re going to draw out every little bit of it.

(Do they know what they’re doing?)

He hisses as he feels one pudgy hand drag up the side of his head; push into his hair; take a tight hold to make sure he understands where he is. 

The door closes behind Mad March, and vanishes.

“Oh, this is going to be _fun_ ,” Dr Dee giggles.

“Best part is, there’s nothing we actually want from you!” Dr Dum cackles. 

“Well, that’s not true, is it?”

“I guess not.”

“There’s plenty of things we _want_.”

“We _wanted_ to do them to that girl.”

“Shame you wouldn’t let us.”

“Mighty shame.”

“Still, we’ve got you, haven’t we?”

“No stone to worry about.”

“No pesky questions. Interrogation’s so _inconvenient_ when you actually need the answers.”

“I think you’re right, dear brother. This is going to be _so much fun_.”

Hatter keeps his gaze fixed on the point where March disappeared. The trick is not to get distracted by the room. Don’t get distracted, and don’t let them in.

“We’re going to peel you open.”

“Like an orange!”

“An orange in a hat!”

He wonders whether they’re being extra moronic on his account. But then, it doesn’t matter.

Best thing, he decides, is to spoil their fun. Peel yourself open, and don’t let them realise they’ve already got to the centre.

The edges of his vision start to go blurry. The doctors are merging into one inane sadistic giggle.

He closes his eyes.

He smiles.

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” asks the Mad Hatter.


End file.
